


Football's Coming Home

by isitandwonder



Category: Actor RPF, Men's Football RPF
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bad French, M/M, Timmy loves football, Timmy's in a bad place, but sex with a hot footballer helps, no football at all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-08
Updated: 2018-10-08
Packaged: 2019-07-28 07:23:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16236944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isitandwonder/pseuds/isitandwonder
Summary: This has been in the pipeline for long but last week I got to write it. Prepare for really bad French and suprisingly little mentions of football - for a football AU.Also, there might come the day I stop ripping Lightning Seeds songs for fic titles but not today...This is totally self-indulgent - but maybe abbys-little-whippersnapper and mylastvow might like it as well? At least I hope so.





	Football's Coming Home

Timmy was excited.

_ASSA_ tweeting their support prior to the Oscars had been great but this – this surpassed everything he’d ever dreamed off as a boy kicking a ball during his summers in France.

How did it come about?

After shooting The King had finished last week he’d decided to visit his sister in Paris. They really hadn’t seen each other for almost half a year so it felt about time.

It was different than before now, though. They tried to ignore it as best they could but now he was the international celebrity, the hot IT boy, a movie star. Magazines like _Paris Match_ reported about what had been intended as a simply private visit of one sibling to the other.

At first, Timmy hated it. He wanted to relax and all the attention made it virtually impossible for him to even just walk down the street his sister lived in, not to mention going out to dinner or clubbing. Fans and Paparazzi hunted him everywhere. He was tempted to book an early flight back to New York.

Maybe he could see Armie there? Armie… he sighed, put his phone down and decided another Paparazzi chase was more welcome.

Then, as if as some sign of karma intervening, the invitation arrived.

As a reaction, Timmy jumped around in Pauline’s tiny apartment, forgetting even about Armie.

There would be a celebration in honor of the Equipe Tricolore’s world cup win at the Louvre (reception + gala dinner) and Timmy and a plus one were invited to attend!

“No, thanks.” Pauline declined. “You know I’m really not into football, Timmy. Not like you.” She winked and grinned.

“What do you mean?” He asked innocently. “It’s complex. I like the game.”

“Yeah, sure, little brother, nearly as much as you like the players. Let me just say one word: shirt swap.”

Timmy flushed bright red. “These are two words, actually.” He threw a balled up tea towel at his sister which she elegantly caught. 

“See, I’m more the handball type. Speaking of hands and balls though-“

“Va te faire foutre!” Timmy started chasing after his sister and they skittered around on the old parquet floor until they ended up in a pile of limbs on the sofa, giggling and laughing until tears ran down their faces.

In the evening, Timmy took the heavy card – gold lettering printed on creamy paper – back in hand and stared at it longingly, almost in disbelieve. Les Bleus! In his old room in New York there was still a poster on the wall of his heroes back from 1998. He’d re-enacted the final so many times when playing Fifa on his X box that he had lost count. His American friends had laughed about him, how he got so excited over a girl’s sport or soccer as they’d called it, but he hadn’t cared. They could play their baseball or basketball – Timmy had fallen in love with the real thing.

He closed his eyes and murmured like a mantra: “Lloris – Pavard – Varane – Umtiti – Hernandez – Kanté – Pogba – Mbappé – Matuidi – Griezmann – Giroud.”

After all, Timmy was a true fan at heart, just a boy in love with eleven men. And now he might meet his idols! He looked over at where Pauline was hunched over her laptop and quickly kissed the invitation, imagining his lips making contact with something more than cellulose.

In the end, he asked Stephane to accompany him.

\---------

Now they are seated at a large banquette table in a huge hall beneath gilded frescoes and marble columns, sipping champagne and eating petite fours. 

The reception is already over. Timmy’s still dizzy from shaking hands with his heroes. Even Deschamps kissed him on both cheeks, patted his shoulder and said some friendly words to him Timmy can’t remember right now. 

Pavard had held his hand as if never to let go… He even knew the movie Timmy had been in. THE movie. His sensual Italian summer romance.

“And I’m telling you, he’s still looking.” Stephane whispers in his ear, startling Timmy.

“Stop it, will you!?” Timmy almost chokes on his salmon canape, breaking into a coughing fit.

“But it’s true. He’s outright staring.”

Timmy doesn’t dare to look in the direction Stephane is indicating with a not at all subtle nod of his head. He could throttle him.

“Maybe he’s interested in _you_.” Timmy hisses in a desperate effort to shut Stephane up.

“Yeah, sure, and it was my hand he didn’t want to let go, and my movie he gushed about for so long the ushers practically had to disentangle him by force from you.” Stephane grins and nudges Timmy’s side.

Timmy yelps, jumping a little, knocking his champagne flute over. The pale yellow liquid soaks the thick damask tablecloth.

“Ups.” Stephane is giggling while Timmy mumbles excuses both in French and English. The elderly actress sitting opposite them puts her drink down and frowns at them before murmuring something to her neighbor who just shrugs and shakes his head. Timmy can practically hear them sneer: “Ces américains…”

He feels put on the spot. The odd one out. A clumsy savage, thrown into a crowd of sophisticated Europeans for their amusement.

A jester at their court.

He doesn’t like it one bit.

“Excuse me. I think I need… to piss.” He says it louder than necessary to shock the Parisian establishment around him – as if that would be possible by mentioning bodily fluids. Yet a few heads turn and someone clears their throat. Timmy doesn’t wait for Stephane to reply, he just balls up his napkin, puts it on his plate and flees the table.

He has no idea where he’s going but he has to leave the banquette hall as quickly as possible. He skitters down a marble corridor, rounds a corner and finds himself in a room full of pictures of old men in white wigs, gazing down at him from the deep red walls, judging him. He flips them the finger before sitting down on a bench in the middle of the room, trying to breathe evenly.

“You okay?” The voice has a heavy French accent. When Timmy turns around he sees a real world champion standing a few feet away, looking concerned.

Timmy’s stunned into silence. Maybe... maybe Stephane had been right?

“Oui, merci.” He stammers, too embarrassed to be able to remember any more French. His papa would be so disappointed – if he was the type of father who was easily disappointed by his offspring. Which he isn't.

“You look… white.” Benjamin Pavard gestures towards Timmy's face. He seems to struggle as much with English as Timmy does with French right now.

“I’m just tired. Fatigué.” Timmy says, trying to smile. But he’s nervous. There’s a stirring in the air he can’t place. Well, he could, but he doesn’t dare…

Pavard smiles back. “Tu devrais t'allonger.” He tells Timmy, who’s not sure if he’s imagining the subtle undercurrent. French is such a fucking seductive language after all. Maybe Pavard just wants to make polite small talk?

“Yeah. I will. Plus tard. Later.”

_‘Later’_

Don’t do this! Don’t think of HIM. HE didn’t call for five days. Apparently, he’s too busy celebrating SOMEONE’S birthday for days on end, advertising their happiness all over social media.

“Why not now? You look… èpuisè.” Pavard extends his hand, reaching for Timmy, who takes it as if in trance. “Allons. Je suis Benjamin.” His hand is warm, his grip firm.

“Timothée. Timmy.”

“I know.” Benjamin smiles as his eyes travel up and down Timmy’s body. Is he blushing a little?

Timmy allows for Pavard – no, Benjamin – to pull him down darkened corridors, following him through dimly lit rooms full of priceless art he’s only ever seen online but has no eye for at the moment as they are glued to Benjamin’s muscular ass covered by well-cut black dress trousers.

Eventually, they reach a door labeled Personnel. To Timmy's surprise, it opens. Behind it lies some sort of windowless break room with plastic chairs, metal tables and some kind of gurney – maybe for medical emergencies - in the left corner below a medicine cabinet.

“What is this place? How do you know-”

But Timmy's questions are cut off by Benjamin's mouth as he's pressed back against the closed door.

And, honestly, answers are not really important right now anyway.

Soon, inquisitive fingers fumble with his fly and that's when Timmy opens his mouth to let an equally inquisitive tongue inside to explore.

“Fuck!” He moans as his black woolen tux trousers are pushed out of the way and a strong hand sneaks inside his boxers.

“Tu es si dur.” Benjamin mumbles against Timmy's already swollen lips. It's not a lie. Timmy's very, very hard. And leaking.

“Pour toi.” Timmy breathes, pushing his hips forward shamelessly, seeking friction. It's only so often he has a professional footballer – and a world champion – fist his cock and even if he's not sure that it's not a dream he's very determined to make the best of the situation arising. Pun intended.

But suddenly, the hand is gone, leaving him lost, lonely. Cold. It seems his default setting these days...

Timmy blinks rapidly, trying to adjust his vision. Maybe it was just a joke? But then two hands grab his and pull him over to the gurney. Timmy almost stumbles with his trousers half-way down his legs and rather ungracefully hobbles through the room.

But it doesn't matter. He's pushed forward, bracing himself with his hands on the paper lining covering the gurney. His hard cock is pressed against his belly.

“Ouch.”

“Sorry.” Benjamin doesn't sound sorry at all as he starts biting the nape of Timmy's neck and that literally turns his knees into jelly. He'll excuse anything right now.

The next thing he knows, deft fingers make quick work of his bow tie and shirt. When it's open, Benjamin pinches his nipples so hard Timmy almost comes on the spot.

“Est-ce que tu aime ca?” Benjamin breaths against the shell of Timmy's ear and he can only nod and whisper “Oui.”

It's the last thing he can utter before two fingers are pushed into his mouth.

Timmy sucks them hard and Benjamin purrs.

Soon, those fingers leave his mouth and push between his ass cheeks, seeking his entrance.

Timmy tenses. He's done this before – but only with Armie. And it's been a while. Because...well, he probably shouldn't think about that right now. Instead, he bows his head, bringing his chin against his sternum, inhales, exhales.

Benjamin must have sensed that something is not right because he mumbles “Pardon” as he removes his fingers while gently kissing down the side of Timmy's neck.

_'Fuck it!'_ Timmy thinks. Armie's in New York, dining and wining his boring wife to get back into her good books after... what was it even they had? A string of one night stands? An affair? Timmy almost laughs. He's sure Armie will fuck Liz later tonight so why shouldn't he get laid as well? 

_'Random luck of the universe, Armie!'_

“Please.” He straightens up, spreads his legs, enticing Benjamin to finish what he started. “Continue.”

Benjamin groans, bites down at the junction of Timmy's neck and shoulder and presses two fingers inside him.

It hurts.

Good!

Timmy loves the pain. It overwrites another, more complicated feeling.

So, when all too soon a third finger is added Timmy hisses but takes it.

“Je peux te baiser?” Benjamin asks. Dark curls tickle Timmy's sweaty nape as hard kisses follow the question. 

He nods. “Oui.”

The fingers leave him. He hears a blister pack being torn behind him. He shivers.

“Lube?” He asks. The medicine cabinet is opened. They both rummage through it with shaking hands. Thank god there's some sort of Vaseline ointment. Benjamin uses it to quickly slick himself up before pushing in.

Just as Timmy wants to scream in agony the thick cock invading him (not as thick and long as Armie's though, but that might be a good thing right now) brushes his prostate. At the same time, a hand covers his mouth.

“Tais-toi, putain.”

Timmy knows he should be frightened, shocked. He should protest, push Benjamin away, resist. This might be safe but isn't sane. But instead his cock is just getting harder. Because he wants to be a slut for this right now. He wants to let a stranger fuck him. Hard. Without mercy.

Why not?

Tears well up in his eyes but he takes it, takes it all. When Benjamin bottoms out he grunts: “Je tu baise bien.”

_'Yes. Please.'_ Timmy wants to answer but his voice is muffled by the hand covering his mouth, making breathing difficult. He starts to feel increasingly light-headed as he gets the pounding of a lifetime over the next few minutes. Every thrust hits home and he just can't...

He comes all over the gurney, even hitting the beige wall. Benjamin follows suit, pulsing inside him, filling the condom as his hand on Timmy's hip clutches hard, seeking purchase.

“Oh god.” Timmy sighs when the other hand eventually leaves his mouth. He sucks in air while trying to stay upright on his feet.

When Benjamin pulls out they both groan. Timmy's hole burns like being on fire.

“Merci. That was... incroyable.” Benjamin turns a dazed Timmy around and kisses him softly on the mouth before helping him to rearrange his clothes. “I _really_ liked your movie.”

Timmy can't help it, he starts laughing, resting his head against Benjamin's chest.

When they both have calmed down a little Benjamin leads him back to the banquette hall, only releasing his hand when they can already hear the chatter of the guests. Before they re-enter the party again, Benjamin straightens Timmy's bow tie one last time, his fingers brushing the skin above Timmy's starched collar. They lock eyes and grin before stepping back into the brightly lit hall.

Benjamin turns left and walks over to his seat near the top of the table while Timmy sits back down next to Stephane, unable to suppress a wince.

“Oh, I see someone scored.” Stephane smirks.

Bastard.

“Please, no football puns tonight.” Timmy sighs, emptying Stephane's still half-full glass of wine in one go.

\---------

Timmy's back in New York the next week, ready to leave for TIFF when a parcel arrives for him just half an hour before he's collected to be driven to the airport.  
He opens it, too curious to wait. When he sees what's inside he starts giggling.

It's a blue jersey with a cock – the animal – and two stars on the front (right above the heart), with the number two in white on the back. It's accompanied by a card that reads: _'Pret pour le deuxième tour?'_

Timmy's still smiling as he pulls the jersey over his head, but then he decides to hide it beneath a pink Alexander McQueen hoodie.

It's private.

He feels the fabric caress his skin all the way to Toronto.

And Armie? Well, if you don't play, you are always at risk of being degraded to just a substitute on the sideline.


End file.
